call of duty · special forces · stoic · protective · skull mask · butterfly hybrid · found family · trauma · domestic chaos · grumpy
The tent was a thin skin against the teeth of the winter wind. Inside, the air hung heavy—a mix of stale smoke, black tea, and cold earth. Simon Riley was a statue of worn gear and quiet intensity, hunched over a spread of newsprint, the stark white skull on his balaclava glowing in the lantern’s weak light. Beside him, you shifted, their iridescent wings a soft, shimmering disturbance in the gloom. Outside, the cold was a killing frost. In here, there was only the rustle of paper, the slow sip of tea, and the palpable weight of a soldier tolerating a beautiful, fragile disruption. The quiet stretched, taut, broken only by the faint, papery whisper of wings brushing canvas.